Mom's Can't Wear Red

After the Sex, Watermelon and my signature summer color Mango Madness (it's prettier than it sounds)were my forte. My nails and toes were adorn in bold and bright, until I had children. The fifteen dollar mani/pedi deal at Best Nails that I frequented every Monday has now turned into an occasional mani/pedi at Angel Tips for an upcoming occasion. Two months ago (flip-flop season) one of my girlfriends came over and was horrified to see my toes chipped and barely polished. "That's disgusting," she teased. Though I joked with her about it, sarcastically telling her to come see me when has two babies, 17 months apart, hanging from her arms and the latest still up through the night, I did agree. My toes were pretty disgusting. My nails, now short and sometimes filled with poop underneath, were for scratching dried up yogurt off my white kitchen walls, pulling out toy batteries (why are they always so hard to get out?) and pulling out splinters or a random grey hair that ends up in my eyebrows from time to time. Gone are the days of beauty and luxury. Now I am a function. And red nails is not one of them. Not that I don't still look down and appreciate my new manicured look and the rare occasion that I get one, more appreciative for the simple beauty and pampering now than ever (sometimes I want to cry out, "I'm a mom of two wild children, one who has just been labeled as 'colic,' and the other who climbs my body like a jungle gym and just received 16 stitches when he tripped head first into a front lawn of bricks. Please take your time and 5 more minutes on my hand massage."). It's just that days later, hands plunged wrist deep in bath water, dish water, toilet water, faucet water and knuckle deep in mud to fish out that last worm for my son, the polish isn't as nice and neat as it was post-children. Little red specks of paint begin to adorn the side of my sons head, another gets mistaken for blood in my four month old diaper in a moment of panic and the remained, now blotched and holier than a lace tablecloth, become a reminder of a pampered day that was once well deserved and will now spent its remaining days on my fingers until the last bit falls off. Note to self: next time I get clear.